


you made a slow disaster out of me

by ohmcgee



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Comment Fic, Damian is seventeen, M/M, POV Second Person, Pretty ooc tbh, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you think about it, it’s not so much that he’s a trouble student as he’s just <i>trouble</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	you made a slow disaster out of me

**Author's Note:**

> DCU, Dick Grayson/Damian Wayne, teacher/student AU: Dick knows that he shouldn't let his best student seduce him, but he just can't help himself...

Damian’s your trouble student. It’s not that he’s a bad kid, exactly, quite the opposite. Straight A’s, perfect grade point average, always on time and prepared for class. When you think about it, it’s not so much that he’s a trouble student as he’s just _trouble_. 

You knew it from the day he transferred over, the way he walked into the classroom like he already owned it, none of the shyness or awkwardness new students usually had. He’s cocky and persistent, shows you up in front of the class more times than you’d like to admit, and every time you look up from your desk while the students are meant to be studying or taking a test, he’s always looking at _you_ , knowing little smirk on his face that makes you feel like you need to run to the gym and stand under a cold shower for a while. 

It starts with him lingering after class, asking questions that you _know_ he already knows the answers to, but you also know he hasn’t made many friends here so far and maybe he just needs someone to talk to. So you pretend that he couldn’t teach the class better than you if he wanted to and you talk about european history and world wars and you laugh when he says American textbooks are full of lies and pandering, but then you find yourself listening intently as he goes into great detail, not for the first time teaching you a thing or two. 

One day he asks if he can eat his lunch in your room so he can read without “the incessant prattling of teenagers” and you wonder exactly how old this kid _is._ You let him, because you are weak and he’s some of the best conversation you’ve had in months, and soon your post-class discussions become post-class and lunchtime discussions, talking about the french revolution and Tennyson while you watch him bite into green apples that sound so crisp and tart it makes your mouth water.

Sometimes you don’t even talk about studies at all. Sometimes Damian asks you what you like to read or what you do on the weekends, when you’re not being Mr. Grayson the History Teacher. You know you’re not supposed to talk with students about your personal life, but it happens so organically that you don’t realize you’re discussing your favorite composers with Damian until you’re already putting on a cd to listen to while the two of you eat. His eyes close when the violins begin, focusing on -- _savoring_ each note, and you think _my god he is beautiful._ You don’t play music during lunch again.

A few weeks later you’re walking out the door, test papers crammed into your briefcase to finish grading at home, when you notice Damian sitting on the front steps of the school. With his hood pulled up and earbuds stuck in his ears he looks so much like every other kid his age, so young and carefree, that it tugs at something in your chest, because you know it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Hey,” you tap him on his shoulder and he looks up at you, removes the headphones from his ears. “Waiting on someone?”

“Something came up,” he says as if this is something that happens all the time. “I’m not sure when my car will arrive. I was just finishing some homework while I waited.”

You open your mouth, already knowing the words that are going to come out and _knowing_ with every fiber of your being exactly why they _shouldn’t._ You say them anyway. “I can give you a ride home. If you want.”

The smile Damian beams up at you only cements how bad of an idea it is.

With every left turn, every press of the brake at every stop sign you ask yourself _what am I doing?_ Every time Damian shifts in his seat, reaches over to mess with the radio dials, mocking you for not upgrading to a newer model, every time he runs his fingers through his hair and you can _feel_ him staring at your profile, your fingers tense on the wheel and you try so hard not to glance over at him, catch him licking his lips and smiling at you out of the corner of your eyes. You fail. 

“Wow,” you say when you finally pull up to his house, his _mansion_ , gawking like a child instead of the grown man you supposedly are. “Nice place.”

He snorts, seemingly unimpressed, and it makes you smile. “It’s old. Been in my father’s family for ages. Would you like to come in?”

_Yes._

“I can’t.”

Damian’s mouth thins out and you hate that you were the one to make the smile that makes his eyes light up so pretty go away. “I figured you would say that. It’s just, there’s a painting I’d really like to show you. I...I painted it. I’ve never showed it to anyone else and --”

“Alright,” you smile, because you can’t help yourself. Because there is this beautiful, amazing, _important_ \-- you just know that he is, you can’t explain it -- boy sitting in front of you, a boy with no friends and hardly no family wanting to share something with you he’s never shared with anyone and you just can’t watch the light go out of his eyes another time. So you say yes, even though you know it’s wrong to, and you get out of your car and follow him into his home, even though you know you shouldn’t, and you’re amazed by what you see. Paintings adorn every wall, sculptures and tapestries, antique vases that probably cost more than your entire apartment. You're too awestruck to notice when Damian grabs your hand and pulls you down the hall behind him, around a corner and up a short staircase, into a room that’s bigger than your entire living room. 

“This is your room,” you say when you notice the books littering the bedspread and nightstand and shelves above the bed, the shoes up against the wall. Damian just nods and points behind you and you turn, taking in the beauty of the canvas hanging on the wall. It’s huge, taking up almost an entire wall, a gorgeous mixture of bright greens and yellows with random swathes of bold red. You’re not sure what it’s supposed to be, but you’re not sure you’re supposed to either. 

“It’s amazing, Damian,” you breathe out, turning back to face him, and his cheeks brighten at the compliment, like he isn’t used to them. Suddenly you want to tell him everything, tell him how wonderful and brilliant and talented he is, just in case he doesn't know. Just in case he doesn’t get told enough. He should. He should be told all the time, every day. “God,” your breath catches somewhere in your throat, probably an omen, telling you to shut up before you say something you can’t take back, but it’s too late. “ _You’re_ amazing.”

It’s too late because Damian’s eyes flare up, the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, then his hands are on your face and his mouth is pressed against your mouth and you think fuck, _fuck_. You can’t. You _can’t_. But then -- you are. Your hand slips around the nape of his neck and when you lick your lips to wet them Damian’s lips part and he sighs a little against your mouth, curling his fingers around your collar and drawing you in, sweeping his tongue inside your mouth. He tastes like sunshine and cinnamon and the salty-sweet taste of teenage boy and you want to spend all day here, just tasting him, want to suck on the hollow of his throat, lick the strip of skin on his hip where his shirt rides up when he lifts his hand in class. 

By a miracle of god, you manage to push him away. 

“Damian,” you pant and try not to look at him, the flush in his cheeks, his shiny, red mouth. “We -- _I_ \-- can’t.”

He frowns. No. He sets his jaw and sets his mouth into a stubborn thin line and his eyes go hard and cold it hits you like a punch to the gut. “I thought you liked me.”

Oh god. 

“I...I do,” you sigh, defeated. You should have realized long ago that you couldn’t deny this boy anything. “But you know we can’t do this.”

Something in Damian’s eyes flicker; like hope. Like _trouble._ “I know we can’t get caught,” he smirks and damn if you don’t want to grab him, kiss it right off his gorgeous face. “And I am very good at not getting caught.”

“The worst part,” you say, already feeling like you’ve sold your soul to the devil. “Is I believe you.”


End file.
